


Find A Way

by Richter



Category: Spider-Man (Ultimateverse), Venom (Comics)
Genre: Ableism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Crossover, Disability, F/M, Flash Thompson's Pathetic Life Appreciation Fic, Fluff, Longing, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-10 07:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Richter/pseuds/Richter
Summary: Miles Morale goes out as often as he can to get used to his new powers, patrolling the city for crime like his hero Peter Parker. One night his patrol leads him to the bar Flash Thompson happens to frequent.





	Find A Way

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my flatmate. This fic is a repost - it was originally posted in 2013 under the title 'Step By Step'. (I am the original author.)

Flash hated winter; hated the way snow would stick to the wheels of his chair and make it almost impossible to get anywhere. His life felt like that all the time – at a standstill – and he really didn’t need the added, physical difficulty to drive it home. He knew that life was out to fuck him over and he had enough crap to push through as it was without snow there to make it worse. The amount of preparation he needed for the weather now was fucking insane.

He wasn’t entirely used to his missing limbs yet, but he had worked out a system – one where he just pulled on his old clothes anyway and tucked the excess fabric underneath his thighs. It was a good system. It didn’t involve faff and it was the bare minimum of change to his routine, which suited him, but it hadn’t withstood the change of seasons. Now he had to make the effort to twist the end of his jeans up – to stop the snow, wind and damp creeping in against his exposed joints. The doctor said they’d healed, but Flash disagreed. Parts of his body were exposed that should never have been exposed. When he touched the scars, he could feel the bone of his thigh and the flesh was tender and sore. It felt too soon to accept the fact that he was incomplete. His legs probably ached so much because they were wondering where the rest of them had gone. Flash wondered that too sometimes.

The accident was a blur he couldn’t remember – just one wrong step and then suddenly he was waking up inside the army infirmary, two foot shorter than he was before.

He had nightmares, but not about the landmine. They were about real life now – about people in the street staring at him, about trying to piss unattended. Poor Flash Thompson, people muttered behind his back. He’d never be a jock again.

He had prosthetics, but he didn’t like wearing them. They put pressure on his bones and rubbed his muscles too hard. Back in the early days, when he’d tried to blend in with everyone else, he’d often find his wounds red and raw whenever he took the legs off. Eventually he gave up on them, because even when he wore them people still stared – at the gate in his walk, the stiffness of legs. Everybody knew there was something wrong with him and he’d rather have them stare for what he was, rather than his pathetic attempts at trying to be like them.

The legs remained hidden at the back of his wardrobe now, kept only as a memory of his failure.

He’d only pulled them out once in the past six months. His thigh muscles had wasted away over that time, but he’d gritted his teeth and pulled the straps tighter to compensate. When he’d looked down the legs had jutted out from his body like a doll’s – lifeless and plastic.  For a second he had pushed himself up to stand, lightheaded with the feeling of _height_ , but the pain had quickly shot up his bones and sent his balance flying.

Before he’d joined the army, Flash had become very accustomed to lying on the floor – waking up in pools of his own vomit, on the bathroom floor, in alleyways, in the beds of strangers… But that part of his life was supposed to be over. He’d joined the army to change himself, to become different than his father. But the Thompson genes won out in the end. Flash had fallen because of his legs that first time, but now he fell because of the drink. After all, what was a Thompson without a beer in their hand? What was a man without legs? A nothing, that’s what.

His father had drilled that into him early. In a way, he was glad his father had at least been truthful with him. Maybe Harrison had some sort of sixth sense, powered by a drunken rage that made him privy to how useless his son was going to turn out?  Better to beat out the hope out of him early.

When Flash fell that first time, Betty came to find him, banging her fist on the bedroom door. He couldn’t remember exactly how things went after that, but maybe she’d said something, and he’d snapped something stupid back at her. He was good at saying stupid shit – had it down to a fucking art. When he’d eventually pulled himself up and shoved the prosthetics back into the wardrobe, there was a note on the kitchen table from her saying that she wouldn’t be back.

But she had come back. And left again. Several times.

Flash could never hold onto a girlfriend - and even when he did have Betty, what did he do with her? They didn’t go out on dates, or have sex.  Betty claimed his legs didn’t bother her, but she always wanted to be underneath, always wanted him to thrust down inside her even though it put pressure on his thighs. She wanted Flash to be a man, and he couldn’t be that.

It was easier to just ignore her advances.

That was the main reason for their fights, for her leaving, and she only came back because she felt obligated now. If you lend your toy to a friend and it comes back broken, do you throw the toy away, or do you hold onto it for a while and try to pretend everything is fine?

She probably felt pressured by the neighbourhood too; by the people who would judge her for leaving a cripple.

They were having a ‘rough patch’ right now, as his mother put it, but Flash didn’t think it was so bad. His life was better without Betty; no one around to harass him about drinking, even if he was starting to drink a bit more. And well, why not? If everyone thought he was drinking anyway, why not give them the benefit of being right? Someone needed to be the bottom of the ladder, to make everyone else feel better about themselves, and Flash didn’t mind being that person anymore. Not with a few shots in him.

So, despite the weather, he was heading to a bar. There was one not far from his apartment. He could easily get there within half an hour, even with the snow clogging up his wheelchair. No need to drag himself on the bus and embarrass himself even further. Those disability spaces were always full of prams and screaming babies anyway, and kids deserved to take up space more than Flash did.

No. He would use the streets to get to his destination.  He’d heard vans out earlier that morning, showering the icy paths with grit, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too bad.

Reaching over, Flash dragged his wheelchair close enough to shift his ass into it (padded by an old blanket) and pushed himself over to the wardrobe, taking a brief glance at his reflection. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair and over his tired eyes, hoping to bring some life back to himself. He had a headache from last night.

He dragged a shirt on over his t-shirt, buttoning it across his broad chest. Although his legs had begun to waste, he’d bought himself a set of weights to keep his upper body strong enough to shift his useless lower-half around. He wasn’t brave enough to go to a public gym anymore. Being surrounded by men with bodies like the one he used to have made him physically sick with envy.    
  
He shook his head and dragged his army jacket on, turning away from himself and heading towards the door. A pat down of his pockets confirmed he had his wallet and keys. He left his phone behind, to avoid talking to Betty if she called. Whenever he was drunk she always managed to make him to spew out pathetic, wussy shit. He didn’t want tonight to be about that. He wanted to find someone new. He need a distraction.

He had been involved with women for a long time. He’d been attractive, athletic and popular as a teenager; three components that let him breeze through high school. A charming smile got you a long way back then and the girls had been all over him. He lost his virginity at fourteen and, even though he’d only acquired one or two girlfriends during his education, his night-time conquests had topped the leader board. And not just in school, either - he and some of the others from the football team had travelled around the city together, frequenting bars with their fake IDs and seducing women a lot older than they were.

He still had his good looks (his father’s genes hadn’t failed him there) but the women he spent time with now were the type to demand money afterward. But they were also the type that didn’t stare at his legs. Flash figured they serviced a lot of men from the war – the ones too traumatised to be satisfied by their normal, pretty wives anymore.

Flash wasn’t fussy. He didn’t care about who he spent the night with. If someone was willing to come home with him, fill Betty’s place, then he was fine. He wasn’t judgemental like he used to be – back when sex was used to impress his peers. Now he used sex to forget (just for a second) that any of this shit had happened to him. When an orgasm hit, you could really pretend you were anyone. Then, when it was over, he would fish out the money he owed, or watch the girl redress – trusting them not to steal from him as they left his house.

Only a couple of girls stayed the night, lying beside him as if they might belong. Betty slept with her back to him; wanted him to hold around her. Flash only felt comfortable on his back now, staring up at the ceiling, and Betty complained about that too. But it wasn’t her fault. If anything, Flash wanted her to move on – find someone new who could love her properly.

And it wasn’t always women that he cheated with – Flash was serious when he said he wasn’t fussy. He’d started sleeping with men after he got back from the army – not very often, but it happened. When he was a teenager, he would have died before lingering on his emotions for other boys. He would have beaten up anyone for so much as _suggesting_ he’d do what he does now. It had started around the time he’d taken up drinking, but he hadn’t been drunk when it happened. Maybe if he _had_ been drunk it wouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. But then again, maybe he wouldn’t have enjoyed it if it hadn’t hurt... Regardless, it had been almost a year since his last encounter with a man. He always went to bars looking for girls – for their bodies, their facies – and it was the same this evening.

The door to the bar was around a corner, just off the main street and down a side alley. The neon sign hanging above the entrance was modest in comparison to the garish crap that littered the buildings of the main street. There was no ramp, but Flash didn’t have a problem manoeuvring up the singular step. Not when a drink was offered on the other side of it.

The inside smelt like ale and smoke. The warmth wasn’t only just on his face, it went through his whole body. He rolled over to the bar, ignoring the stares he got along the way. He supposed it was only natural. When he was younger he would have done more than just stare. He would’ve cracked jokes at anybody who was different, just to remind them that he was better than they were. Well, funny that… He didn’t feel much better than them now. He guessed that was karma.

The bar wasn’t low enough but Flash just looked up at the bartender, recognising him, and said: “Usual, please.”

The guy went off and Flash brushed the snow from his hair and shoulders, quickly checking the bindings around his thighs as he waited. When he was satisfied, he shifted out of his coat and sorted his shirt. The worn-out letters that spelt ‘ARMY’ across his chest weren’t boastful; they were convenient. He got dressed based on what was easy and what was nearby.

He took his beer when it was offered, handing over a few dollars in exchange.  The first sip soothed his nerves more than anything else could. Halfway through the pint, he decided to check out the rest of the bar’s clientele. Would someone in here be going home with him tonight?

It wasn’t that late yet, but he recognised a few dedicated veterans who attended the local Alcoholics Anonymous with him. They nodded to him, their own drinks clutched tightly in their hands. A couple of underage girls were sipping at drinks they had probably flirted their way into buying, and a few small student groups were gathered in the booths.  Some sort of cheesy jazz song was playing from the jukebox and a pretty, blonde girl was standing alone beside it, playing with the buttons. She had a heart shaped necklace hanging down across her chest, drawing Flash’s eye down. He took a sip of his drink before heading over to her.

“I hope you’re planning on changing the song.” He offered her a smile. His mother always complimented his smile – said it was the same one that his father used on her all the time. A smile that trapped women.

The girl did what most of them did - turned around to down-talk whatever asshole had decided to interrupt her, pausing when she was met by empty space. After a moment, she glanced down unsurely and met his eye.

He flashed her another smile. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

She blushed. God bless her. “Oh sorry. I didn’t see….” she trailed off and it didn’t take a genius to guess that the end of her sentence was _‘that you were disabled’._ Her awkwardnesscame through in her body language, obviously too polite to know what to do. Flash could maybe try and work with that. 

“I’m Flash.” He held out his hand.

“Hi,” she said, tucking some of her hair back behind her ears, which were a little big for her head. “I’m Amanda.”

Flash wondered if that was her real name, but she seemed like a nice girl and maybe he should give her the benefit of the doubt. “A pretty name for a pretty face,” he said.

Amanda gave a small laugh, but didn’t seem willing to continue the conversation. An empty silence grew between them as she stood awkwardly, so Flash pushed a little harder. One more try and if it didn’t work then she wasn’t interested. It wasn’t unusual for him to get rejected a few times over the course of a night. As it got later, people would get drunker. Their standards would drop…

“Do you need a dollar for the jukebox?” he asked.

Amanda opened her mouth, but it immediately had the look of a mouth ready to make an excuse and Flash had enough dignity (though not much) to put his hand up and stop her before she spoke. She wasn’t going to be the one. “It’s alright,” he said. “I get it. You must already have a boyfriend who’s willing to pay. Excuse me.” He picked up his beer and rolled back to the bar, leaving the girl alone. He didn’t know if she had a boyfriend, but using that excuse always got him out of awkward flirtations with girls who had no desire to sit on a cripple’s lap.

Back at the bar his drink disappeared, and another replaced it. Another replaced that, and then another replaced that. By that point the bar had grown dark and the music had changed. Some kid put a modern, chart song on the jukebox and the underage girls got up to dance in the middle of the pub. Amanda and a bunch of others joined in. Flash felt his legs ache where they didn’t exist anymore.

He kept ordering drinks and the more he drank, the more he watched her. She became more beautiful as the night went on, and he wondered if he might have a second go at flirting with her. She’d had a few more drinks by now. Perhaps he could be the person she regretted going home with that night.

It was something to aspire to.

He decided to head over to her, because what did he really have to lose, but just as he put his glass down a hand landed on his shoulder and jerked his wheelchair around. A young man leaned in close, breath stale with beer. He was handsome and charming; like looking into a mirror at Flash’s high-school self. He almost laughed at the similarity.

“Hey, hands of the steel,” he slurred, pushing the teenager back. “You creep – can’t you see I’m _disabled_?” He always went on like this when he got drunk – a sudden, proud disability activist.

“I’m the creep?” the guy laughed. “You’ve been staring at my girlfriend for almost an hour, you fucking perv. You’re the creep here, bro.”  
  
Flash made a noise to defend himself, but it barely made sense to himself, and the boy continued: “I’ve had a talk around the bar and we all want you out.”

He pushed Flash toward the exit, shoving the door open and holding the wheelchair over the step. The snow had picked up and the cold air rushed inside, past them both, but Flash figured he had enough beer inside him to keep him warm. He looked into the dark alley, barely able to tell up from down, and laughed. Typical.

He’d have to find a new bar to frequent.

His wheelchair went over the step and he fell out of it like dust into the trash. With his motor functions ruined by the alcohol, he hit the ground chest first and snow burst into his mouth. He turned over, powered by the alcohol, and shook his head: “You want me to call the police?”

The boy laughed, throwing the wheelchair off to the side – just out of Flash’s reach. “You’ve pissed yourself,” he informed, condescending, and turned back into the bar, cheering to announce his victory.

Flash wanted to charge back inside and pull off that kid’s legs at the knee – just so he knew what it was like to be top-dog and have it literally ripped out from underneath him… But he  _had_  pissed himself. Sometimes that happened when he was drunk (losing his legs hadn’t messed with his bladder, but every man lost control when they drank too much). It was totally normal. He could just pull out the blanket he usually sat on - use it to cover him up. His ass could deal with the hard seat for one journey.  
  
Coughing, Flash dragged himself to sit up, ignoring the warm wetness around his crotch as much as he could (which was easy at this level of drunk).  His watch flashed 11pm as he dragged himself through the snow toward his chair. He’d gotten drunk far too quickly. In this state, he didn’t even want to call a prostitute – he just wanted to go home and curl up in his bed.

Maybe he could just sleep out here in the snow. He probably wouldn’t bother anyone…

He reached the wheelchair and leant his upper body across the seat, pressing his face into the back and letting out a tight sigh, shoulders shuddering from a sudden emotion that caught him off guard. What the fuck had happened to his life – to allow him to be tossed out of a bar like garbage in the wind? He was in a _fucking wheelchair._ He tried to ignore people’s pity, but it was hitting home tonight that it was the only source of human contact he really had. If people didn’t pity him, where the hell would he be?

Betty wouldn’t linger around for much longer, that was for sure. Hell, his own mother would probably rather sit at his father’s deathbed than help him out of a situation like this. What was going to stop people throwing him out of other places – just for being the eyesore of humanity? For staring at girls he’d never have, because they wanted men who could walk –girls who probably assumed his dick didn’t even work.

Flash squared his jaw and slammed his fist into the wheelchair, sending it teetering back against the alley. Without it to lean on, he slumped to the ground and was overtaken by the sudden urge to just… stop existing. He needed sleep.

A voice knocked him out of it, and a small hand touched his shoulder, unsure.

“Uh, hey mister… are you alright?”


End file.
